


As If She Were the Sun

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Character Death, Future Fic, Implied Relationships, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew she was there by the joy and fear that overwhelmed his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As If She Were the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> The character death in this fic is implied and in the past.

He doesn't recall ever seeing green against the alluring shade of her skin before; he grew so accustomed to the red over the course of all those years. And the youthful ponytail is gone, replaced by a side-swept bob that suits her just as much. She still _looks_ young. There's something unearthly about her, and he supposes that makes sense, considering that her entire life has been the practice of reaching out to other worlds. His job was to fix things, but he gave that up a long time ago, when he ran out of patience for stitching.

She runs her narrow thumb along the rim of the glass of bourbon he's bought her. It's a surprise that he's here with her now and he wants to strap her down into her side of the booth so she can't go. He sees the sparkle of a transporter beam in her eyes, hears the clicks and hums of the inner sanctum of a starship in the soft drum of her fingernails. He sees everything he used to see. It's nearing half past one but he can't let her leave.

"Leonard McCoy, you'd better have plans to buy me another if you're going to keep sitting there and staring at me."

She's teasing and, yeah, he remembers that, too. Jim always liked that about her most: the challenge, the daring edge to her voice. The fire on the stove top that burned so bright you needed to touch—that was Nyota. And, yeah. That was Jim, too.

"I could never refuse an old friend," he says. He waves his hand for another round.

He knows the lines at the corners of his eyes are far deeper than they once were and he wonders if she's seeing him as he is now or if she's picturing someone from the past—the man only willing to crack open his bourbon stash for Jim, and consequently, anyone Jim brought along for the ride. Sometimes, if Jim caught her on a good night, she'd come half-dangling from the crook from his arm, shaking her head as if to say _no, no, no_ and then barely fighting Jim off as he sat her down in an empty chair, hands gentle on her shoulders. And they'd all drink away the stress of their shifts as Jim gestured and told stories to his captive audience, completely in his element, and eventually her head would tip against his shoulder, Jim's arm around her waist, and he didn't _have_ to feel jealous because there was enough love to go around and he had his fair share.

Sometimes it was her head on his own shoulder and Jim would lean back and smile as if he'd planned it all along.

He still remembers the tickle of her hair against his ear. And Jim's hands reaching for his, across the desk, across his bed. When she takes his hand now, he gasps, a small pinprick of fear before a deeper calm sets in. She's smart—she understands what he's lost, the scars that never stitched. Surely, she must know what she's come to represent, after four glasses of bourbon and twenty years of grief.

"There's a lot you still need to say, isn't there?" she asks. She glows with patience, the kind that's only learned over time. Her mouth adapts a subtle curve as she leads him from the booth. "I was there. You can say it to me."


End file.
